FOUR days ago my wife succumbed to a heavy cold. She cooked tea, cleaned the bathroom and washed dirty laundry.

FOUR days ago my wife succumbed to a heavy cold. She cooked tea, cleaned the bathroom and washed dirty laundry.

Two days ago she passed the illness to me. I informed family members I was dying, retreated to our bed and stayed there.

At my lowest point, I scribbled a 10 things to do before I die list. Number four was: Buy that stuff that gets rid of grey hair.

Ive been toying with the idea of writing a will, but, apart from a collection of enamel football badges dating back to the 1970s, theres little to bequeath to kith and kin. Julies said if I snuff it, the mortgage is written off: a win-win scenario, she puts it, bluntly.

This illness does not mean my wifes braver - or hardier - than I am. It means that during close contact with She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, the virus mutated into something very nasty. She had pretty much the same effect on me.

What started as a simple strain of the common cold has been transformed within my wife into something that would fell a full-grown chimp.

Im probably the first link in a global pandemic that will claim the lives of numerous celebrities. The small one in the Chuckle brothers looks like hes already got it.

When she or my son come upstairs I cough dramatically and, if that fails to get a response, issue low, feverish moans. Once I dramatically cried out for a spittoon.

Are you alright? my wife asked matter-of-factly during a foray into our bedroom.

Do I look alright? I snapped. My temperatures sky high

Youre lying next to a radiator with a duffel coat on, she pointed out, unkindly.

I cant breath, I havent got the strength to do anything

No change there, then, she chided.

Just leave me alone, I wailed, pulling the covers over my head.

Dont be a wimp, she laughed, heartlessly, youve just got a cold.

Its almost worth snuffing it to prove her wrong.

Id ditch the usual sentimental tosh on a headstone for a curt: Still calling it a cold?

If I could listen from the other-life over my own casket Id love to hear my wife whimper: and to think I called him a wimp.